


Winner Take All

by Glowbug



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: (Emmy is not good at handling her feelings in ways other than kicking them or bottling them up), (in-universe I mean), (possibility of drugging), Alcohol, Blood and Injury, Choking, Emmy the roving reporter, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Loneliness, POV First Person, Post-Canon, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Self-Blame, Sexual Assault, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomiting, and in other news:, complicated feelings, death of an abuser, guess i should also tag, reference to offscreen character death, suffocation, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 18:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13393254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glowbug/pseuds/Glowbug
Summary: There was a guy, in the hotel bar, a couple weeks after her uncle died. He bought her a couple of drinks, and let her talk, and she probably got drunker than she should have, and…By the time she worked out what was happening, it was too late.





	Winner Take All

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING: As the archive warning states, there is rape. It is experienced from a first-person perspective. (I'm sorry, Emmy…)
> 
> This fic is completely made up out of my head, so I'm not certain how intensely it might affect someone. Please, please take care of yourselves. I will not be offended if you close the tab.
> 
> Comment moderation is on (because internet and sensitive topic), but comments are appreciated.

Sunlight burning through my eyelids.

Awake. Alive. Rolling over, away from the glare. Telegram still sits on the bedside table, where it’s been every morning for the past two weeks.

_We regret to inform you of the death of Leon R. Bronev. His possessions will be held for 180 days for you to claim as next-of-kin._

A contact name, a number, an address. A burial date that I missed, because Dar couldn’t forward the telegram until I arrived in this city. She didn’t know. Didn’t know it would matter that much.

I should have been there.

A small pile of unread telegrams on the other bed, beside my suitcase. Empty pizza boxes and chip bags in the corner. The clock reads half-past one. Ugh. Might as well get up and give housekeeping a chance to come through, before some critter decides to move in here with me. I wouldn’t even be able to chat with it.

I stumble into the shower.

* * *

I don’t make it far. Feels wrong to step outside without my camera, which is locked in the safe in the room; more wrong to take pictures like nothing ever happened. People-watching in the hotel lobby, that much I manage. So many picture-perfect families visiting cookie-baking grandmas and crying buckets when those grandmas die, because that’s what you do.

I haven’t cried yet. I don’t know what I feel. Unmoored. Lighter. Angry, sometimes. I laughed and laughed for no reason when I first opened the telegram; what kind of person _laughs_ when her only family is gone? I wasn’t even happy. (Was I?)

The staff in the hotel bar give me the side-eye but don’t ask questions. I’ll have to get back to work soon, or hit my savings, but for now another plate of vaguely edible chicken wings, two beers, and eventually a fuzziness that soothes my howling mind.

“Now, what’s a beautiful girl like you doing moping in a place like this?”

I look up. Surfer dude: blond hair, blue eyes, perfect tan. The sort everyone in the bar is checking out quietly, no matter their usual gender preference.

Sex would distract me, but take way too much effort right now. “You need a better line, dude.”

Surfer Dude grins sheepishly. “Yeah, guess I do.”

I stare down into what’s left of my beer.

“Uh, seriously, though.” He’s still there. “Something the matter?”

“My uncle died,” I mutter.

 _“Christ._ I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.” Fuck it. I finish the beer.

“Can I buy you another?” Surfer Dude asks. “This place isn’t much, but the dark stout’s decent.”

I look him over. He’s probably a jerk. Good-looking jerk, but that’s nothing new. Still…

“Nothing better for drowning your sorrows,” he adds.

“…Okay.”

* * *

He says his name’s Shane. “Emmeline,” I tell him, God knows why. I haven’t gone by my full first name since I was like seventeen. Except to Uncle Leon.

“So.” He slides me a beer across the table. “This uncle must’ve been pretty important to you.”

“Yeah.” I take a sip; it’s good, stronger than what I was drinking before but foamy and tasting of hops rather than vaguely alcoholic dishwater. “He was more like my father, really, so…”

“Geez.”

“I didn’t get back to see him before he died, either.” I don’t add that Uncle Leon wrote a couple months ago and asked to see me, and I didn’t go. “W-We weren’t getting on that well, the last few years, and I hadn’t really been speaking to him, but…” Would things have been different? There’s so much I never had the nerve to say to Uncle Leon, and now I’ll never know.

Shane reaches across the table, takes my hand. “Wanna talk about it?”

For once in my life, I do. We finish one pair of beers, and another, and then I’m rambling on about cooking lessons and karate and how Uncle Leon kept buying me camera books when I was small, everything I can talk about without explaining Targent, or the Azran, or Professor Layton and Luke. I don’t talk about those things now to anyone.

He asks questions, and listens. I don’t cry, mostly, but somehow a stack of paper napkins finds its way into my reach. Last call comes far sooner than I expected.

“Damn,” says Shane. “That’s the shortest evening I’ve had in a _long_ time. Can I walk you back to your room?”

“Th-thanks, but ’ll be f-fine—” The world pitches as I stand up. How many drinks did I have, again? I grab the edge of the table, waiting for my vision to clear.

Shane loops an arm lightly around my waist. “I insist.”

I’m suddenly very tired. “D’you play at being a gen’leman?”

He laughs. “Sometimes.” We make our way to the elevator. “So what’s your room number?”

I tell him. He steadies my balance the whole way up, and it feels good, just being held, no expectations. I even rest my head on his shoulder. When I fumble with the room key, he eases it out of my hand and lets both of us into the room. I don’t argue.

He turns back the covers on the bed. “There you go, beautiful.” He more or less lays me down and helps me pull off my boots and socks.

I smile at him. “I kinda... kinda overdid it, huh?”

He laughs. “I’m just glad I was there, babe.”

“Thanks f’r... letting me talk about Uncle Leon an’ all...”

The bed dips. “Hey. How often does a guy like me get to spend the night with a gorgeous girl like you.”

Before I can think what to say, he leans over and kisses me hard.

Paralyzing heat ripples through my body. _Goddammit, Emmeline, everyone has hidden motives. Your job is to_ find _them and not trust to appearances._ Uncle Leon gave me that scolding so many times...

Shane kisses me again, kneading my breast with his hand. I push him back, clumsy, thoughts tumbling past each other. “Hey... don’…”

“It’s all right.” He pulls the blankets over both of us. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

My head spins. I’ve had _way_ too much, and I feel as if I’m moving in slow motion.

Big hands undoing my shirt buttons. Grabbing at them. “Dude! What the—fuck…” Arms splayed out against the mattress. Movement, rustling. One thought comes together— _kick him._ Reflexes languid, muscles resisting.

Heavy legs pressing against mine, trapping; air forced out of my chest. His mouth, tasting of booze and mint chapstick. Butterflies in my stomach. Kisses working their way down my neck.

A memory from early combat training: _The worst place to be in a fight is flat on your back. Never let your opponent get you on the ground, Emmeline._

He tosses his shirt aside—bodybuilder, six-pack abs that ripple as he caresses me. Showy muscle, not useful—I can beat that, easy. _Sit up, Em. Get him_ , but I can’t seem to move. What’s wrong with me? Was it the beer?

Shane undoes the rest of my shirt. Hands beneath me, pulling it down my arms and away; bra suddenly loose. He leans down, runs his tongue over a nipple. I gasp despite myself.

“That’s it, gorgeous.”

His hands again, stroking, fondling, but never letting me up. Unwelcome, aching wetness starts between my legs.

My hands, pushing, useless. Trying to get a full breath. “Get— _off—”_

His hand seals my mouth and nose. “Shhhhhh.”

He’s unzipping my jeans. He’s pulling—I can’t breathe. I can’t _breathe._ Scrabbling at his hand and arm— _go for the thumb, thumb gives you control of the entire hand—_ teeth aching from the pressure. _Please—_

He’s saying something. “…good girl…?” His face blurs until it’s just a sickly crescent moon smile.

Nodding. Have to. Have to breathe.

He lets go, lets me gasp and sputter and drag in almost enough air. Hot breath against my ear: “You’re cute when you squirm.”

Bile rising in my throat. Sucking moisture onto my tongue. Spitting in his face.

He wipes himself on something pale yellow, crumpled. My shirt. Gagging, as he crams it into my mouth. Unzips his trousers. He’s hard, just in case I didn’t know where this was going.

He pulls off my jeans and knickers. Fingers my clit. Nerve endings respond, traitorous, and my combat training slips away like water, body turning against me to let this bastard in.

Searing pressure. Involuntary cries muffled by the gag.

Not strong enough. Not brave enough. Professor, Uncle, help me.

* * *

Brightness.

Choking, head throbbing. Rolling over, hands finding shirt fabric still in my mouth and pulling it free. Coughing.

I can breathe.

Eyes open, vision clear—more or less. I sit up, painfully.

He’s gone. I’m naked, my arms and chest dotted with hickeys; there are faint bite marks along my collarbone. Between my legs, I’m sore and sticky, skin smeared with dried blood and secretions I don’t want to think about. It’s on the sheets, too.

He wasn’t gentle. He fucked me till he came and then choked me again, cock stiffening inside me as I thrashed like a dying animal and then came myself. He didn’t even take the gag out. Maybe I wasn’t meant to have woken up.

 _Everyone has hidden motives._ Uncle Leon was right. Shane must have been waiting for someone like me: lonely and buzzed and _stupidly_ wanting to talk, missing my uncle and not even thinking of whether I was drunker than I should have been.

The _bastard._ I walked right into it.

It hurts to walk into the bathroom. The shower’s been used, a damp towel dropped on the tile floor. In the mirror, a large bruise spreads over my mouth and nose onto my right cheek.

I drop to my knees and vomit.

_For shame, Emmeline. You’re tougher than this._

But I’m not thirteen anymore, Uncle. And this wasn’t just crude comments from the older cadets. I feel filthy, and I don’t know what to do.

_Tell me, Miss Altava. When did you first become aware that your guardian was involved in criminal activity?_

The police would just treat me like a suspect again, a pawn in a deal that cleared me of charges and put Uncle Leon in prison. My choice, and I chose betrayal. Again.

Besides, I’ve seen cop shows. I know what they’ll ask. What was I wearing? How much did I drink? Why did I let him into my hotel room? They might believe the injuries… but then there’s the matter of evidence. And I don’t want anyone to touch me.

God _damn_ it.

I hobble out into the room, put a fresh roll of film in my camera. I photograph everything: the bruises, the bleeding, the stains in the bed. Myself in the bathroom mirror, black and blue and face swollen with tears that stream down my face unbidden as I shoot and shoot and shoot.

Evidence. This happened. This was real, if only to me.

When I’m done, I yank the film out into the light, ruining every single picture.

I turn on a scorching shower and scrub myself raw.

* * *

The clothes I wore yesterday are crumpled on the floor or tangled up in the bed. I leave them there, pulling on fresh underthings and trousers, shirt and sweater and socks. I stop short at boots: yes, he touched them. But I only have one pair. I can’t wander around outside in my stocking feet.

Well, I’m not going out right this minute. I curl up in the desk chair.

How could I crumble beneath a little fake kindness from one asshole dude in a bar? I’ve spent my _entire life_ training to beat people bigger and stronger and better armed than him. I could have thrown him out the bloody _window_ if…

Oh, who am I kidding? I couldn’t even walk straight. Stupid. _Stupid!_ Did I want him to hurt me? Did I come while thrashing for air because some twisted part of me found it hot?

But if I did, why would I feel as if I’m ripped open?

I wish the professor was here. I’m ashamed to even think of having to tell him, but—God, I wish he were here. He’d make me tea and promise me it wasn’t my fault, which is more than Uncle Leon would have done.

There’s a pad of paper on the desk. I pick up the hotel pen, spin it in my fingers. Treat this as purely practical, Emmeline. Make a list. You’re not calling the police, and there’s no one around who can help you…

(Oh, _hell.)_

… _So._ What _do_ I need?

“Cold packs,” I say out loud. “Makeup to cover the bruises. Bandages, silver cream. Emergency—”

—contraception.

“Uh, food.” Not that I feel like eating. “And s-somewhere else to sleep tonight.”

Besides my camera, comb, and toothbrush, there isn’t much to pack. The rest, I can get at a pharmacy. I need more camera film, too, if I’m ever going to get back to work.

“All right. So get on it, Em.”

I curl up tighter in the chair.

This isn’t hard; stand, put on boots, grab the rucksack, go. I know my body. It almost always does what I tell it to. But not last night. Not today.

I pick up the desk phone and dial the 800 number for my American calling card. Punch in the code I memorized when I got here, then a number I couldn’t forget if I tried to.

Far, far away, the other end of the phone line rings. I only realize my hand’s come up to my mouth when it brushes against the bruise.

“This is Hershel Layton. How may I help you?”

Oh my God. He’s there. It’s been so long… _It’s me, Professor. It’s Emmy._

The moment I speak, I bring him back into my orbit. And maybe that would make me feel better…

“Is anyone there?” the familiar voice asks, now tinged with concern.

I can’t hold back a gasp. _I’m here. Please, I need help._

…but silence would contain the damage. Why should someone I care about hurt because of me? Haven’t I done enough of that already?

If I tell him, will he still see me as _me,_ or will I become another of the ones he tries to rescue?

“Hello?” the professor’s saying. “Are you all right? Who… who is this?”

My hand, reaching out, putting the phone receiver back in its cradle.

“He really hurt me, Professor.” A whisper he’ll never hear.

I’m alone.

I’m not sure how long I sit there, watching the shadows move across the wall. Hours, since when I finally put on my boots and grab my things to go, it’s almost dark.

There’s a 24-hour pharmacy down the street; that’s enough of a destination. My footsteps ring against the pavement; I imagine I’m grinding that surfer dude into the ground.

I’m better than this. I’m better than _him,_ the damn asshole. But I let my guard down and he raped me.

I won’t let my guard down again.


End file.
